Inside Out & Back Again

1975: Year of the Cat

Today is Tét,
the first day
of the lunar calendar.

Every Tết
we eat sugary lotus seeds
and glutinous rice cakes.
We wear all new clothes,
even underneath.

Mother warns
how we act today
foretells the whole year.

Everyone must smile
no matter how we feel.

No one can sweep,
for why sweep away hope?
No one can splash water,
for why splash away joy?

Today
we all gain one year in age,
no matter the date we were born.
Tết, our New Year’s,
doubles as everyone’s birthday.

Now I am ten, learning
to embroider circular stitches,
to calculate fractions into percentages,
to nurse my papaya tree to bear many fruits.

But last night I pouted
when Mother insisted
one of my brothers
must rise first
this morning
to bless our house
because only male feet
can bring luck.

An old, angry knot
expanded in my throat.

I decided
to wake before dawn
and tap my big toe

to the tile floor
first.

Not even Mother,
sleeping beside me, knew.

February 11
Tét

Inside Out

Every new year Mother visits
the I Ching Teller of Fate.
This year he predicts
our lives will twist inside out.

Maybe soldiers will no longer
patrol our neighborhood,
maybe I can jump rope
after dark,
maybe the whistles
that tell Mother
to push us under the bed
will stop screeching.

But I heard
on the playground
this year’s bánh chưng,
eaten only during Tết,
will be smeared in blood.

The war is coming
closer to home.

February 12

Kim Hà

My name is Hà.

Brother Quang remembers
I was as red and fat
as a baby hippopotamus
when he first saw me,
inspiring the name
Hà Mã,
River Horse.

Brother Vũ screams, Hà Ya,
and makes me jump
every time
he breaks wood or bricks
in imitation of Bruce Lee.

Brother Khôi calls me
Mother’s Tail
because I’m always
three steps from her.

I can’t make my brothers
go live elsewhere,
but I can
hide their sandals.

We each have but one pair,
much needed
during this dry season
when the earth stings.

Mother tells me
to ignore my brothers.
We named you Kim Hà,
after the Golden (Kim) River (Hà),
where Father and I
once strolled in the evenings.

My parents had no idea
what three older brothers
can do
to the simple name Hà.

Mother tells me,
They tease you
because they adore you.

She’s wrong,
but I still love
being near her, even more than I love

my papaya tree.
I will offer her
its first fruit.

Every day

Papaya Tree

It grew from a seed
I flicked into
the back garden.

A seed like
a fish eye,
slippery
shiny
black.

The tree has grown
twice as tall
as I stand
on tippy toes.

Brother Khôi spotted
the first white blossom.
Four years older,
he can see higher.

Brother Vũ later found
a baby papaya
the size of a fist
clinging to the trunk.

At eighteen,
he can see that much higher.

Brother Quang is oldest,
twenty-one and studying engineering.
Who knows what he will notice
before me?

I vow
to rise first every morning
to stare at the dew
on the green fruit
shaped like a lightbulb.

I will be the first
to witness its ripening.

Mid-February